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Hard
I think I said that things would start getting better now, famous last words. At the beginning of the week I was on a high. Work was hectic, but I was super-midwife. Two of my patients had both given birth, apparently it was the best experience ever and all the praise was being heaped at my door, I had 'empowered' them. Around I zoomed within my rosy, self-congratulatory glow, the mood was up, nothing was too much, I didn't care how much work there was, I was super-midwife. Yes, everyone was right, I do have the most amazing job.
Thursday, my day-off. The phone rings and it's my manager, immediately I do the inner check, what have I done wrong? Sorry to phone me at home but she needed to speak to me. One of my ladies had just had a stillbirth, completely unexpected, everything absolutely fine right until the end. Long discussion about the events leading up to and following, still in hospital at the moment but going home shortly. Later I phoned them and asked if they wanted me to go round that evening, no, but would I go round the next day. This is when it becomes impossible to remain detatched. As a community midwife you have accompanied them through their pregnancy. Congratulated them the first time you met, sympathised with their morning sickness, listened with them the first time they heard their baby's heartbeat, and smiled at their tears. Joked about how baby was going to be a footballer the way it kicked when you felt their tummy. Initiated them into the joys of labour, birth and parenthood at antenatal classes and once again sympathised when they had backache and heartburn. They've told you their hopes, and fears. The final chapter is supposed to be the congratulations all over again. The welcoming of their new little one into the world, supporting them as they begin their life as parents. Instead I'm going round to visit two completely stunned, disbelieving, devasted parents. When I should be showing them how to wind their baby, we are discussing the funeral. We are sitting reliving the most traumatic day of their lives. They chose to donate baby's heart valves for transplant, I cried because of their bravery, how did they think of others at this time? 'At least we can stop another baby dying, we couldn't help our baby, but we can help another.' All they want from me is one thing, Why? I have no answer, I feel useless. I want to be able to give them an answer and at the moment no one has any answers. The midwives and doctors are all asking the same question. Why?
So now I am no longer super-midwife. I am me.
All change (I hope)
I know I have been a real winge-pot recently. A part of my brain has been telling me to 'snap out of it', whilst the rest of it has been busy just holding everything together. I have only been communicating with family and friends on a surface level, my defences have been up and wired against intruders. That's how I deal with stress. It got so bad, and I felt so sorry for Hubby, that at the beginning of the week I contemplated seeing the G.P and getting some 'happy pills', luckily I was too busy! The change started on Thursday. I had my interview, and didn't get the post. My manager came and told me, I was disappointed, rejection is never easy, but stoical. Then she said that the Head of Midwifery had said that I was 'heavy hearted', and I realised that my mental state was starting to impinge upon my work, something that I pride myself doesn't happen. Friday morning, and the baby's funeral. It is with a certain amount of trepidation that I go to these heart-breaking ceremonies. I always have a fear that it will be there that the grief suddenly turns to anger, and that I will be the focus of someone's understandable desire to blame someone. That didn't happen though. The family come from one of the small villages that I work in and half the village were there to support the family, many of them took the time to come over to me and say they knew how sad I must be. My emotions were undergoing a turmoil, on the one hand I was grieving for the family, and on the other I was starting to feel self-worth again, I wasn't just a person who sat in clinics, they felt I belonged, and knew I cared about them. It was a beautiful service, a sad goodbye to hopes and dreams, for a baby who will never be forgotten.
Now a change around. The afternoon saw the meeting about a new, local birth centre. Our plans were unveiled, long debates and discussions ensued. Midwives, Mums and associated groups all planning for a home-from-home environment and ethos. So exciting. I arrived home a different person. Five days off work. Plenty of time to start preparing for Christmas and Hubby's birthday on Sunday. So much weight had been lifted from my shoulders that I was practically in orbit.
Last night saw Hubby's informal Golf Society Xmas do. Men only, out for a curry and booze, then four of them staying here ready for an early start for golf. Friend and I went out for a meal, didn't eat much but drank enough to clear the cobwebs. All stayed up until 4 this morning, playing Top Trumps. Today is here, and I am back. My life is mine again.
Cooking
At last it's done and in the oven. My Christmas cake, which I usually make in October and then feed with Brandy on a two-weekly basis, has officially been removed from my 'to do' list. It has never been this late but with one thing and the other I havn't got round to it. The only other year it was this late was when , for some stupid reason, I wrapped it in cling film. Disaster. When I unwrapped it to 'feed' it I was greeted with this spectacular, multi-coloured version of a fruit cake. The colours were amazing, livid pinks, turquoise and yellow there must have been tens of previously undiscovered different moulds growing happily on it, I could probably have rid the world of a multitude of infections if I had allowed them to continue reproducing, that or killed thousands with my hitherto unknown biological weapon, The Lethal Fruitcake.
Hubby is spending today playing hunter/gatherer, in other words he's outside chopping wood for the fire. This evening there is a surprise in store for him, we are meeting the girls and their partners for his Birthday meal. Son is unavailable due to a previous engagement, watching Arsenal v Chelsea at the pub. Needless to say this has met with all round disapproval, aka 'The Look'. The girls have inherited this form of wordless communication of displeasure from me, although they have extended and honed it to a whole new art form. The basic 'look' involves pulling the shoulders down and back and lowering the chin slightly. The head is then tilted to one side by about 10 degrees, at the same time the cheeks are drawn in by a miniscule sucking motion, the mouth gives the suggestion of a sardonic smile and the eyes are raised. I accompany this with a raising of the left eyebrow. The girls version includes tilting into one hip, putting hands on their hips and sighing. When used sparingly we find this quite effective, especially with people who don't know us well, however close relatives and friends seem to develop an immunity to it's intended freezing effect, this is certainly the case with Son.
Off to check on the Christmas cake and put my face on (make-up) prior to going out. Whoops, better get Hubby in and tell him to spruce up, he might be a bit miffed if he missed his celebration.
Spag bol
Today was a note-worthy day in our household, Jack sampled Nanny's Spag Bol for the very first time, and loved it. His Mummy, Aunt and Uncle were all weaned on this culinary delight and today Jack has gone off to visit the Health Visitor breathing garlic on all around him, the face of an angel, the breath of a lothario.
Sunday evening was Hubby's surprise birthday meal. Son didn't come, I'm not sure how Father Christmas will respond to this absence, I suspect he may show his displeasure by putting a garish pair of sox, or boxers in his stocking. When we arrived at the restaurant the other diners looked doubtfully at Jack, particularly when he decided to thump the table loudly whilst going his vocal impersonation of some prehistoric beast. The evening was saved, and all were won over when Hubby opened his card from Jack and the song 'Grandad' played. All were smiling and Jack and his Grandad became quite the celebrities.
The Christmas shopping has started in earnest, the cards will be written tonight, and the decorations have been retrieved from the loft.
Banking - back to the dark ages
I'm mystified. 30 years ago, when I opened my first bank account, cheques took 4 working days to clear. In those bygone, steam operated days there were no faxes, no on-line accounts, no e-mails, no networked computers, no ATM's, no PIN's, no debit cards, no BACs etc. Now we are in the computer age, if I so desire I can look up my account on-line or at a hole-in-the-wall, everyone wants me to pay by Direct Debit (what was wrong with Standing Orders, they feel much safer) but it still takes 4 days to clear a cheque. Why? Could it be that there is some percuniary advantage to the banks? It's certainly of no advantage to me. Why aren't we all rebelling? If we all got together and removed all our monies from the money establishments for 1 day we could bring them to their knees, come on let's do it. I know some of you may worry about the safety of your money for those 24 hours, it's okay, I'll look after it for you. Under my mattress is really safe. Seriously though, any answers out there?
Sunday night, and Jack looking tired 'cos it's way past his bedtime.
Not enough time
I should be cleaning and tidying the house, shopping (again), wrapping pressie's, doing the ironing, fixing the new car seat in the car, raking-up leaves, labelling MIL's clothes, a host of tasks, infact anything rather than sitting at my desk blogging. Later on today we are going to choose the Christmas Tree, an outing steeped in tradition, the finale of which is always an arguement about the size of it. Hubby seems to think we are trying to fill the nave of St Paul's, so we always end up having to saw 1/3rd off the bottom when we get back and he realises we live in an ordinary house.
Before the tree can get anywhere near the sitting-room I have got to sort through the 5 bin-bags of MIL's clothes that her husband brought round last night. All we asked for were some cardigans, instead we have acquired a bagged history of her choice in clothes over the last 40 years, all of which smell really musty. So far I have reduced the quantity by 50%, off to the charity shop with them, whilst the rest are awaiting washing and labelling, just what I need to be doing the week before Christmas and the day before Sister, BIL, assorted nieces and/or nephews, Jack, his Mummy and his Daddy come round for Sunday dinner. At least it's not raining so I can dry the majority outside.
'Don't panic' is the catchphrase for today, actually it has a verb in it so I think that technically it's not a phrase, doesn't matter, that's my mantra.
Eldest daughter had her scan yesterday. Voicemail message from Hubby left me worrying, 'baby's fine but...crackle, crackle........breaking-up......, spoken to you?' Turns out she has a low-lying placenta, not an uncommon finding at 20 weeks, they will re-scan her at 36 weeks and the chances are that by then it will have moved up. Of course all she heard was the ultrasonographer saying 'caesarian section' and 'haemorrhage' of course they are a possibility, but the chances are way higher that everything will be alright.
Girl (brain) power
BIL and sister came round today with just the one of their gang. After an initial cautiousness, on Jack's behalf, they were all soon bonding and putting Jack through his paces, whilst he was only too pleased to show off his weird crawling technique and demonstrate his varied vocal abilities.
After dinner Jack and his parents left and we settled down to a male v female trivia competition. It was a close run thing, but Matilda and I pipped the men at the post. Of course they were reluctant to admit defeat to the brains of mere females, they said it was unfair. What can they mean, just because the quiz-mistress was my youngest niece, and some of the questions were hand-picked by said niece, this doesn't mean that there was anything less than sporting going on. We are prepared to give them a re-match at any time. The result will be the same though, the girls will win.